


Jerry's Cherry

by eastcoastlighthouse



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Gender-neutral Reader, Other, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 06:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12030591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eastcoastlighthouse/pseuds/eastcoastlighthouse
Summary: You may have made some bad decisions and now you're staying in a shitty motel off of the interstate. The wallpaper is peeling, there's a weird smell in the hallway, and your microwave doesn't work, but it's not all bad. Down the hall a pitiful dad has taken up residence, and you intend on taking something of his.





	Jerry's Cherry

**Author's Note:**

> An anon informed that they "would fuck Jerry in the ass without lube because [they] want to hear him scream". Obviously I couldn't let that stand.

You’ve got your reasons to be in this seedy motel. Most people have their reasons, you reckon – it’s not the kind of place you end up in unless you played your cards a certain way. You can speculate about what brings the others here, but you know it’s only polite not to ask. A secret tryst, an unfortunate habit, some time out of the reach of the long arm of the law… most people here you don’t want to associate with anyway. Still, you can always tell the ones that are here because of marital problems. They’re usually dressed a little better, but even that can’t offset their red-rimmed eyes and shrinking manner. In a way they’re almost like ghosts, pale and drawn and half here, half somewhere else.

These banished spouses, more than anyone else, want to be left alone. There’s a bar a little ways down the road that you wander to sometimes to clear your mind of the reasons that got you to the motel in the first place, and you’ll run into some of the other tenants there every now and then. When they do make conversation, it’s all surface-level stuff. The weather. The game. The government. 

Then, one night, a guy you’ve talked to a handful of times before introduces an unexpected fourth topic: the way a marriage can disintegrate before one’s very eyes. 

You are nursing your third beer of the evening and thus more amenable to his tale of painfully average suburban woe. It’s really nothing out of the ordinary. A mistake in high school. Two kids. A house with a garage. A dog. (Something seems to have happened to the dog, but he glosses over it and you don’t ask.) Unemployment. Shitty in-laws. It’s only a few weeks after the collapse of the galactic government, and in a way it’s pleasant to discuss these totally banal circumstances of an ill-used life. After he finishes his rambling account of his pitiful existence, he’s even nice enough not to ask about your own troubles. Instead, he asks you about your favorite movie. Whether you play sports at all. Where you grew up. 

They’re the questions you ask a stranger at a party to show that you’re a social person, to fill the silence, to lay the foundation for a deeper connection. But when he asks them, and when he asks _you,_ he seems interested. Your answers only prompt more questions, and whether that is actually the kind of guy he is or whether he’s just really trying to get you to like him doesn’t even matter. 

He asks the bartender for another drink for the two of you. You ask him if he wants to come home with you. His initial surprise tells you that you may have misjudged the situation, but then his expression brightens with a smile of gratitude that even restores a bit of color to his washed-out face. 

The walk back to the motel is quiet. Making aimless conversation was easy enough when you were just two strangers in a bar, but now there’s a goal in sight, something you’re working towards – and suddenly discussing current affairs seems pointless and cowardly. You both have plenty to think about anyway, especially when he suddenly grabs your hand and holds it until you arrive at your front door with its peeling paint and the dent where someone must have kicked it. 

You’ve got some light beer in the fridge, but he turns it down. “I’m already, uh, feeling it,” he says, and he sinks down on your sofa with its half-collapsed middle section. You stand there looking at him from the kitchenette with a bottle of Miller Lite in your hand, and the way he looks back at you (squinting a little because he just won’t stop smiling, his face rounder with it like a cartoon of the moon) makes you realize you’re, uh, feeling it too. 

The moment you sit down next to him you’re kissing, and the moment you’re kissing you’re smiling, and the moment you’re smiling you’re thinking of what’s next. You know what _you_ want to do, and he’s so non-threatening and sincerely happy to be there that you just throw it out immediately, because even if he does balk – well, who is he to you? You whisper it in his ear, but to preserve his morale, not yours. 

“Well, gee,” he smiles shyly. “I’m not sure if, uh… that’s not something I’m used to, used to doing.” 

You understand. Of course it’s not. When’s the last time this guy got laid? If you’re a good judge of character (which you might not be, considering you’re very seriously considering hooking up with Jerry Smith) you’d say that the last time this guy got up to anything even remotely non-vanilla (with his now ex-wife or otherwise) was probably months ago. Maybe years. But that’s why you’re here. As a guide. 

You shush him – first with a finger on his lips and then, rather more creatively, by just kissing him again. He’s surprised by that, and you’re caught off-guard in turn when he immediately winds his arms around you and hugs you close. You get the impression that just this would be enough to satisfy him – just a little kiss and a cuddle. But it’s certainly not enough for you. 

You take his hand and lead him to the bedroom, rifling through the nightstand for the necessary supplies – lube, of course. A condom. And everything else you need. Meanwhile he’s shucking off his pants with a clumsy enthusiasm, getting entangled for a moment but finally he manages to kick them off and drop them to the floor. Just that stupid shirt and his socks and his underwear, and you can tell he’s waiting for you to show him yours before he can show you anything of his that’s not his bare legs. You’re way past the point of pretending to be shy and before long you’re naked and ready for him – but you’re wise enough to know that that doesn’t mean he’s ready for _you_. 

There’s a coyness to him that’s almost boyish, and that in itself is enough to have you enjoy this encounter more than just his skills in the bedroom would have. He needs your help (which mostly consists of encouragement) undressing and when you lie next to him for a little fondling, you can tell he’s trying not to be noisy. His fingers aren’t particularly deft, his arms not especially strong, and his body is just your stereotypical gave-up-years-ago kind of dad bod. But he’s so damn _excited_ to be sharing this moment with you. You don’t need his cock rubbing up against you to know _that_. The look in his eyes tells you enough. 

It’s why you don’t spend too much time warming him up verbally. You put a pillow under his hips, get your fingers lubed up, and lie on your side next to him, coaxing him to spread his legs for you. Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t have to make direct eye contact, but he complies readily with only a mumbled “You’ll be careful, right?” Of course you’ll be careful. You finger his asshole with all the delicacy of a master clockmaker, knowing one wrong move could break down the internal machinations that have this man still lying in your bed with his legs wide and a knuckle in his mouth. You whisper in his ear too, lubricating his mind as much as his insides: _you’re doing so well, see how good you’re being, this is so hot, I can’t believe you’ve never done this before, you look great like this, I can’t wait to fuck you_. Every new moaned compliment has him sinking further into the mattress. And every new finger you sink inside him has him moaning. His cock juts out fat and heavy, thick and nice-looking even with part of it hidden underneath a little paunch. 

You take your time. More so than you might have done with someone else – even someone equally inexperienced. He’s just so sweet. The way he looks at you whenever you change up your pace, for assistance on how he should act, what he should do, it’s almost like taking an especially well-trained dog on a walk in a new neighborhood. Besides, this is perhaps the first time in ages that he’s being touched like this – touched at all, perhaps. He’s so grateful for even the most minor of ministrations: even when you do nothing else but tuck some stray hair (graying a bit at the temples, you notice) behind his ear he shudders and leans into the touch. It feels powerful. You are holding this man in the palm of your gentle hand. You know it’d be so easy to make a fist and crush him, but it’s so much more _rewarding_ to be magnanimous. Bigger effort, better pay-off. 

When it happens, it’s gentle. It’s face-to-face. You’re not going to doggy style this guy. No reverse cowgirl. You can fuck a chubby ass whenever you want, but here the main attraction is that sheer devotion dripping off of his face (that and sweat). That’s a rare pleasure in this day and age (and in this motel), you find. At some point you put a hand on his cheek but he peels it away – to intertwine your fingers instead. The fluorescent lights are no candlelight, the noise from the street no Barry White, but when you close your eyes and press your forehead to his it’s borderline romantic. What pushes it over the edge is that his climax announces itself not with a grunt, or with his cum spurting over his own belly, or with anything base like that. You know he’s there when he squeezes your hand. 

He stays the night. You spoon. When you wake up in the morning, you’re both a little hungover, a little awkward, a little sore. “Nothing croissants won’t fix,” he says. And he’s right.


End file.
